


aubade

by Hikari_C



Series: doctrines of time and god [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Clay | Dream-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Deity Karl Jacobs, Fluff, Gen, Going Back In Time To Save Your Idiot Immortal Friend, Immortal Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Karl Jacobs-centric, Lowercase, M/M, Memory Loss, Multi, Soft Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Time Travel, Time Travelling Karl Jacobs, lapslock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29525205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari_C/pseuds/Hikari_C
Summary: aubade(n.) song greeting dawnthe world croons and crowsas time sings a gentle aubade,and there, i begin to wonderif the “me” i knew was just a façade.—whether time existed before creation or creation existed before time, he doesn’t know.all he knows is that they’re always together, side by side.since from the very start, creation and time walked on the same path.or: the deity of time tries again, because it’s what he needs to do.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Karl Jacobs, Alexis | Quackity & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Clay | Dream & Karl Jacobs, Karl Jacobs & Sapnap
Series: doctrines of time and god [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2143581
Comments: 27
Kudos: 149





	1. i. ephemeral

**aubade**

(n.) song greeting dawn

the world croons and crows

as time sings a gentle aubade,

and there, i begin to wonder

if the “me” i knew was just a façade.

* * *

_i_.

**ephemeral**

(n.) lasting a very short time

* * *

he wakes up in an unfamiliar room.

he blinks multiple times, holding his head as dizziness overtakes his vision. groggily, he tries to sit up, hands pushing against a softness that he can’t describe. his vision slowly becomes clearer as he looks around, marveling at the beauty of the room he’s in.

the walls are made of logs, leaves and vines growing everywhere. there are flowers too, dotting and adorning the room, varying in shapes and sizes. there are a lot of open spaces on the walls; windows, he thinks, sunlight pouring in and lighting up the room. he squints his eyes at the brightness, his head throbbing at the light.

“you’re awake!” someone calls, and he flinches in reflex. the person falters, clearly, in their footsteps, something like awkwardness in their actions. “oh, i’m sorry for yelling. i’ve brought some food, if you want to eat.”

he raises his head, meeting a smiling face. emerald eyes glimmer in the faint sunlight, the smile further accentuating the person’s features. something twists in his chests, reminding him that this person is so familiar and he can’t remember—

“are you okay?”

at the question, all his tension vanishes and he’s momentarily surprised. there’s a wooden tray set on the table, bread and fruits present on it. he blinks, opening his mouth to say that it is unnecessary, when his stomach grumbles and he pushes down the protest.

“yes,” he clears his throat, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse. a glass of water is handed to him and he accepts it, drinking the liquid gratefully. “yes. thank you.”

“no problem!” the person answers cheerfully, “i’ll be by the other room, call me if you need something.”

the person leaves, and he’s struck with a vague ominous feeling. he takes a bread into his hands, exhaling as he feels his trembling, take a bite of the food. it tastes wonderful, a perfect blend of sweetness and flavor. he swallows, relieved to see his hands stop shaking.

he stays there for a while, absentmindedly eating, his mind wandering at the sight of an unfamiliar yet welcomed place. there’s something heavy in his mind, a nagging feeling there, like he’s forgotten something. he can’t remember what it is, though, so he resigns himself to exploring the room.

he pushes himself on shaky legs, frowning at the sensation of weakness. he uses the walls as support, inhaling a sharp breath as he feels the wood curl into his hand, sending comfort and content through the bond. he withdraws his hand in shock, ignoring the loss in his chest, staring blankly at the logs.

he hears footsteps rushing to his location, dread instantly making its way to his nerves. he comes face-to-face with the person again, the familiarity so overwhelming for a minute that he forgets to breathe. hands immediately reach out support him, warmth making contact with his skin.

“what happened?” the person asks, white blinding his vision for a moment. “are you alright? the trees told me that you felt... off, for a while there.”

“i’m... fine,” he breathes out, “do the... they always feel like—?”

do they always feel alive, _sentient_?

the person understands his question with frightening ease, worriedly urging him to his bed. “well, yes,” they say, “i always had a connection with them, and i guess when i healed you, I accidentally shared that with you.”

“oh,” is all he can say, the shock gradually fading. “oh.”

the person smiles bashfully, a tinge of rose pink on their cheeks. “sorry about that,” they say, and it sounds so sincere. “i’m crea,” they introduce themselves, “well— a lot of people refer to me as creation, but that seems off, so crea it is.”

his head pounds, throbbing in pain. he’s forgotten something, but somehow, just somehow, he knows that this person is related to that.

“oh! what’s your name, by the way?” crea asks, beaming at him.

_k—..._

“k...” he trails off, the remaining letters blank in his mind, “k... i...” he pauses, “i don’t remember.”

“oh,” crea says, not sounding disappointed but understanding. a wretched feeling rises from his chest, but he pushes it down— how could someone be this gentle? this... this _kind_?

“would it be fine if i call you time?”

time.

his head throbs even more. he thinks that it’s an affirmation that he’s on the right track.

“yes,” time breathes, “time.”

* * *

> i can’t remember anything.
> 
> i met crea. there was a small snippet of a memory regarding him. maybe he’s connected with what i forgot?
> 
> “time” is also connected, i think.
> 
> i hope i remember things soon.
> 
> _time_

time pauses, swallowing dryly. he stands, a bit more used to maneuvering himself around, and begins his way to the kitchen. per usual, crea is already there, humming as he feeds birds with bread crumbs. the little creatures are chirping happily, some singing some sort of melody in the background. as if he’s alerted, crea turns back, greeting time with a smile.

“thank you,” time says, motioning to the journal. the leather is grounding against his skin, smooth yet coarse, light yet heavy. his hands instinctively clench around the item, before he sets it down on a nearby shelf. “are you sure that it’s alright if...”

“of course,” crea nods, “you’re free to use anything here as long as you don’t hurt anyone.”

time pauses, feeling something heavy fade from his shoulders. the tension there is gone, replaced by something light and pleased. “okay,” he says, more evenly this time.

“i’ll always be here to help,” crea promises, shifting over. he immediately soothes the disgruntled birds, apologizing with a cheery note. “i promise.”

time doesn’t know where the sudden bitterness and guilt come from. he’s even more confused at the words echoing in his head, a voice sounding like his own and another’s.

_i’m sorry_.

* * *

in hindsight, he should’ve known. he should’ve realized it earlier.

* * *

the first memory comes during an unassuming morning.

crea’s growing new flowers and trees, and time takes a moment to admire the fresh batch of lavenders and white roses by the house. they’re beautiful, perfectly organized and grown. they smell sweet, a flowery fragrance, not subtle and not too much either. time breathes, relaxing on the chair he’s sitting on.

he’s by the sitting room, writing short stories on a journal. it’s not his memory journal, of course, a different one that crea had gifted him once the other has learned of his passion for writing and storytelling. the other was enthusiastic in doing so, eagerly giving encouragement and praise whenever time shares one. there’s always the occasional criticism, but it’s kind and constructive that he welcomes it, too.

before he could lose himself in writing, an exclamation brings him back to reality. he jolts, immediately goes near a window to ask. crea’s by the window, a steam of floating water by his side, swirling around lazily. “oh,” crea sounds a bit embarrassed, catching sight of time, “the bread. i kind of forgot to...”

“it’s fine, i can do it,” he quickly intervenes, moving from his position and setting his journal down. he moves closer to the furnace, intending to douse the flames with water and to take the bread out. a wave of dizziness halts him as he kneels in front of the flames, something seizing his mind. he pauses in his tracks as the nagging sensation grows more and more uncomfortable.

_fire. there’s fire everywhere, but oddly enough, he doesn’t feel afraid. the flames lick at his skin, but there is no pain or anything associated with it that rises, just wonder and amazement. he raises his head, coming face to face with a blurry figure. there are hands stabilizing his own, a voice too far away asking him. he tries to shake out of it, but he can’t quite seem to move, frozen and immobile._

_“k...” the voice is saying. “k...?”_

he must’ve stayed still for too long, for there are arms around his and a voice slowly coaxing him back to awareness. he blinks, eyes peering up to meet crea’s worried ones.

“are you alright?” he asks worriedly, “you didn’t respond to me when i asked, and you were just... out of it. did something happen?”

“nothing,” time says, his voice sounding floaty and elsewhere. “i was just... remembering.”

crea’s face melts into one of understanding. “is it something...” he hesitates, “bad?”

“no,” time answers, regaining more control over his motions. “no. it was just strange.”

“what is it about?”

“fire,” time whispers, “fire and... someone. someone special to me.”

_to us_.

* * *

_“you can’t do this. you. you can’t.”_

_“it’s the only way to stop this.”_

_“no. there must be alternatives somewhere. we need to keep searching—”_

_“they’re dying.”_

_“i— i know, alright? i know. i— i just can’t. i can’t lose you.”_

_“you won’t lose me. i’ll always be with the world.”_

_“you know it’s not the same.”_

_“...i’m sorry.”_

_“...”_

_“can you... can you do one last a request?”_

_“...”_

_“take care of sapnap.”_

_“...i will.”_

* * *

the next memory comes when time has taken the initiative to go outside. he’s gone outside a few times, of course, but he always prefers to stay in, too overwhelmed by the sudden sensations and varying amounts of welcome from plants and creatures alike. the world appreciates him, exceedingly grateful for bringing a smile in crea’s face.

it’s afternoon, the warmth of the sun pleasant on his skin. he smiles briefly, allowing himself to relax at the peace and serenity. he hears a cry of excitement somewhere, and he snorts out a laugh, already knowing.

“time, time, look!” crea eagerly beckons him over, emerald eyes alight with glee. in his hands are seven birds, whose feathers are of brown, gold and yellow. he glances at them, making a soft coo in greeting, smiling when they return it with loud chirps. “they’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

“they are,” time agrees, reaching out a hand. it takes a while for a bird to come flying right into his palm, making happy, trilling noises. he digs into a pouch and offers it some seeds, laughing as more and more birds flock to the food. he looks up, finding crea’s smiling face beaming at him.

“i’ve never seen them before,” he comments, letting the seeds fall to the ground. the birds move there, abandoning his hands, although a stubborn one remains perched on his shoulder. he smiles helplessly, letting it stay there for now. “did they migrate?”

“mhm,” crea nods, “the south is experiencing winter, and they’re unused to the cold, so they moved to the north.”

“oh,” time hums, watching keenly as the bird on his shoulder flies over to crea. “will they stay here?”

“most possibly,” crea agrees, his fingers brushing through the plumes of feathers. they nip at the other’s fingers affectionately, flapping their wings to take off. “yes, they will.”

time watches, almost mesmerized, as a flock of birds come soaring through the air. their feathers faintly glimmer in the sunlight, almost seeming like they’re glowing. the yellow and gold of their feathers stand out against the brown, creating a mesmerizing spectacle across the sky.

_“beautiful.”_

time pauses, glancing over at crea, who seems to be distracted by the remaining birds cooing at him. it doesn’t seem like the other has spoken, so he lets it slide, raising his head to watch the birds fly once more.

_“your wings are beautiful.”_

_an array of feathers are spread out before him. his hands are brushing through them, laughing at the relaxed coos coming from somewhere. there’s another person beside him, laughing all the same, a hand settled on his shoulder._

_there are words being spoken, but they’re too muddled to be audible. he shifts beside, conversing with a blurry figure, too vague to be seen clearly. he squints, sitting down on something soft, brushing off the yellow feathers off of the material. he’s smiling, clearly, a joyful sensation in his chest, but he doesn’t know why._

“a memory?”

time distinctly hears crea’s voice, blinking as he returns to consciousness. he’s seated on the grass, half of his body weight leaning against crea’s. he moves to apologize, but the other shushes him, playing with his hair.

“yeah,” time answers, remembering the question. “it felt... warm. i was happy.”

crea hums above him, gentle fingers carding through his locks. “what caused it?”

“the—” time pauses, searching through his memory. “feathers, i think. the yellow ones.”

time squints his eyes, his brows furrowed in thought. he clearly remembers yellow wings, remembers the feel of them and the delight in his heart. but he can’t help but think of white, of white feathers falling to the ground, sullied with soil and mud. he tilts his head, meeting crea’s eyes.

“do you have wings, crea?” he asks, unknowing of what prompted his question. the other hums, letting go of time’s hair. he feels a sense of loss, but he moves away, choosing to sit upright.

“i do,” crea answers, an uncharacteristic apprehensiveness in his tone. time tenses for a bit, but then the other exhales, relaxing himself. crea nods at him, a permission to continue, keeping his posture open and unreserved.

“are they,” time hesitates, his hands clenching, “white?”

“mhm,” the other affirms with a nod. “yes, they are. do you want to see them?”

time exhales, because, for some reason, his chest constricts at the thought. “okay,” he ends up saying, “only if it’s alright.”

in all of a sudden, there’s light filling the area, and time squints, his eyes unused to the brightness. he feels the steady thrum of power, echoing through the world, pulsing and pulsating. it reaches a boiling point, as if it were to be released; it doesn’t however, and the light gradually dies down.

crea’s wings are beautiful. they are of pure white, shimmering and glowing, appearing ethereal and divine. time gapes, awestruck, even as crea extends them. there are six pairs of them, fluttering against the wind, a few stray feathers taken away by the breeze.

“beautiful,” he breathes out, and tries not to think of his own voice speaking in a different place, in a different time. “crea— they’re. they’re _beautiful_.”

crea smiles at him, pink dusting his cheeks at the praise. time returns it, watching with avid fascination as the wings disappear, vanishing in a flash of blinding light.

time does not know why he feels loss. he doesn’t know what causes the guilt in his chest, weighing him down with each smile crea gives him. he doesn’t know why he wants to embrace the other and whisper comfort and empathy; he doesn’t know where the _i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_ in his head comes from.

his hand clenches. his fingernails are digging into his palms, breaking his skin. crea, noticing the act— of course he notices, he always does— walks up to him, and gently opens his palm. there’s a kindness in his movement, a kindness that tells him that all is not yet gone.

time thinks that it’d be alright.

* * *

_“what— what happened to your wings?”_

_“i... i did what was necessary.”_

_“you mean you—”_

_“i resealed the nether. i needed to, or else the world would be destroyed.”_

_“you can’t keep doing this.”_

_“i—”_

_“you know you can’t. don’t try to argue. i’m not blind.”_

_“...i know.”_

_“then why?”_

_“you know why.”_

* * *

“what are you doing?”

time moves closer to where crea’s working, his hands moving busily. the other raises his head from where he's been pouring yeast, a questioning expression on his face.

“oh!” crea blinks. “i’m making bread. the soft ones that you like. i figured that you’d like something to eat while wiring.”

time pauses, warmth in his veins as he relishes at the thought of someone caring for him, at the evidence of someone looking after him. he smiles gratefully at crea, unsure if his voice would work if he chooses to express his thankfulness verbally. fortunately, like always, the other understands and returns to his work.

time peers over curiously, watching as the yeast rises and foams. he hums, shifting his eyes to the ingredients laid out on the table, organized and clean. crea makes a soft noise, returning time’s attention to him.

“do you want me to teach you?” crea asks, halting his movements.

“if it’s alright,” time answers easily, a smile forming on his lips. “what are we doing first?”

crea takes the milk and butter on the table. “we need to warm these up first,” he says, “i don't really think the furnace is appropriate, so...”

crea opens a palm, and flames begin to weave and dance on thin air. time watches, transfixed at the sight, his eyes widening in awe.

_fire._

_safe._

_fire._

_safe._

_safe._

“add sugar and salt next,” time belatedly realizes that crea has already vanquished the flames, leaving behind a warm milk and butter mixture. he blinks, and suddenly there’s sugar placed into his arms. he fumbles to grip it properly, almost toppling it over. “there you go.”

carefully, time adds the sugar onto the warm milk and butter, watching it dissolve into the mixture. crea hums, pleased, adding a light amount of salt, a wooden spoon in his hands. he stirs all of the ingredients together, watching with satisfaction when he finishes.

“we're going to add flour next,” crea announces, “um... where is it again...?”

time chuckles, raising a bag of flour. “here,” he says, handing it over, “is this enough?”

“it’s the perfect amount, actually,” crea beams, “there,” he says, beginning to mix the dough.

“let me,” time says, reaching out for the spoon, “i insist.”

at his words, crea allows him to do so. they knead the dough for a while, working together in a comfortable silence, broken by the soft chitters of birds and the crooning of creatures outside.

it takes a while, and a few more short conversations, but eventually they finish. as they place the proofed bread into the furnace, crea hums in satisfaction. time stretches his limbs, running a hand through his hair. he blinks at the smell of freshly baked bread, turning his attention to his companion.

“is that...?” time gestures vaguely to the tray crea’s taking out of one of the furnaces. the latter brightens up, setting the tray on the table. it’s red, distinctly smelling like oil and sweetness. he glances at it for a moment, the image pricking at his insides. he doesn’t know why.

“beetroot cake,” crea’s saying, excitedly waving around. time finds it slightly difficult to catch up, his mind buzzing with static. “i experimented with some of the vegetables, and found lots of beetroot. i thought i’d try to make a cake with them!”

time glances at the cakes again, the red hue making his firsts curl. it sends a sinking feeling in his chest, twisting and churning. he looks away, unable to bear it anymore.

“time?”

he looks at crea and musters up a smile, “yeah?” he asks, chuckling lightly, “sorry, i was just.”

“thinking.”

* * *

_“is this... is this really the only way?”_

_“i can’t let him destroy the world further. he already ruined... us.”_

_“you’ll... you’ll disappear.”_

_“i know. i’m prepared to face the consequences.”_

_“...you’re too kind.”_

_“i’m not. i’m really not. you know i’m not.”_

_“you already atoned for your sins. the past is in the past.”_

_“if only it could stay that way.”_

_“...dre— crea.”_

_“promise me?”_

_“you’re a hypocrite, crea.”_

_“i know.”_

_“i can’t promise anything.”_

_“i’m the deity of time, after all.”_

* * *

> fire feels safe. probably related to someone i trust.
> 
> i remember wings. yellow and white. crea’s is white, i don’t know about the yellow one.
> 
> red hurts. it makes me uncomfortable. maybe it’s bl

time bites his lip, crossing out the word. his hand stutters, the quill hovering above the parchment. he stares at it for a long while, only setting his quill down when a large blot of ink stains the otherwise pristine paper. he stays there for a while, unknowing how to proceed.

exhaling loudly, he stands up, beginning to wander around. he paces around the sitting room, just to release his anxious energy. his footsteps halt at a yelp, already familiar with the sound; crea makes odd noises more often than not. time thinks that it’s because the other has been with nature for nearly the entirety of his life, and little human interaction.

“flowers!” crea yells happily, sounding very much like a child. time can’t help but smile fondly at the thought. “time, time, look!”

amused, time follows to where crea’s voice comes from, peeking out of the window. he shrugs, deciding that he’s too lazy to go through the door. he hoists himself up, landing outside, thankfully avoiding the flowerbeds by the window.

“new flowers?” time calls out, ducking as a large bird comes sailing past his head, zooming into the house. with his line of sight downwards, he notices the line of pink roses by his feet, raising an eyebrow in question. “roses?”

“roses,” crea agrees, his voice now muffled beneath the flowers. time bites back a snort, walking over to help crea out of the mess of petals. “ow,” the other hisses, a thorn pricking his skin. the roses droop, as if they were stricken that they hurt crea; time watches amusedly as the aforementioned person coaxes their flowers back into their glory. “thank you.”

“no problem,” time nods, plopping down beside crea. “where did all of these roses come from?”

“the birds!” crea says, “they came and left some seeds. i planted some of them, and it turns out that they’re roses! red and pink roses, to be exact.”

it is only then that time notices the red surrounding the both of them. his throat tightens, suddenly feeling claustrophobic and trapped. he doubles over, the red surrounding his vision mockingly, tauntingly, feeling fear shoot up his spine.

“time?”

“no,” he gasps out, “i... red... _no_.”

he doesn’t remember passing out.

all he remembers is crea’s worried face, his figure pulsing brightly with power.

* * *

the red twists, spreading into thin appendages. they crawl and slither, reeking of guilt and hatred, curling into the recesses of his mind. time watches in horror, his body frozen in shock and an overwhelming mantra of _it’s over it’s over give up give up_.

then he’s suddenly in another place, another timeline—

_“k—” someone is shouting, “run!”_

_but time can’t seem to find the energy nor the courage to move. it’s chaotic, noise incessantly ringing in his ears. there are shouts everywhere, screams of agony and wails of despair, overloading his senses. his fist clenches out of its own accord, a gnawing feeling in his gut._

_there’s anger bubbling inside of him, threatening to spill out in waves. he grasps around, his hand tightening around a sword, bloodied and damaged. he lurches forward, his view immediately locking on a red mass. it takes him a while to register that the scream is coming out of his own thr— no, no it's not; there's someone else screaming, and he can’t—_

_“karl!”_

“time!”

_the anger is growing, his vision sharpening and narrowing. he can’t, he thinks angrily, with a stray tear falling down his cheek, he can’t fail._

fail what?

_he can't let ~~ **d** a **r** e **e** r **a** c **m** 's~~ sacrifice go to waste. it’s the last thing he could do, for a companion, a friend, a brother; it’s the last thing he can do to save all of them—_

from what?

_red vines lash at his figure, curling around his feet and threatening to pull him over. he doesn't let it, hacking away at whatever is in front of him, desperation and adrenaline pumping in his veins. he lets out a cry as he raises the sword, beginning to force it down—_

_“go—”_

“come—”

“ _ **back!**_ ”

time ( _karl karl karl_ ) jerks awake with a choked, wretched scream.


	2. ii. sempiternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in a fit of desperation, he asks, aloud, “is there a way i can fix this?”
> 
> it’s all silent.
> 
> and then— the world answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: panic attack, breakdown

* * *

_ii_.

**sempiternal**

(n.) everlasting; eternal

* * *

the world is dark. barren. desolate.

he can’t move, he can’t do anything— why isn’t he doing anything? he should find— find his friends, his family— he should find _**d** a **r** e **e** r **a** c **m**_ —

he chokes, trying to breath as his vision wavers. in all of a sudden, he’s on his knees, and he doesn’t even know how he got there. his vision is spinning, flashing from a bloody battlefield to a smooth, wooden floor. he shakes, his arms lashing out everywhere, trying to grasp anything—

suddenly, there are arms around him, grounding, a gentle voice softly coaxing him into reality. he glances up in panic, his eyes dilated, meeting worried emerald. he feels the contents of his stomach rise up, bile hitting the roof of his throat.

“shh,” a voice says, soothing and gentle and kind, “focus on my voice, time. you're here with me. you're safe. no one is going to hurt you.”

something warm is being poured into his body, and he feels himself minutely relax at the comforting sensation. the voice keeps on talking, light and friendly, unburdened by time, by agony.

“can you feel it?” the voice asks, and a rough object slides into his fingers. he grasps it tightly, his nerves still strung high. whoever is holding it let’s go slowly, allowing him to take the— wood, a bark of some kind— into his palm. he nods in a haze, his grip still tight.

“can you give me five things that you can feel?”

swallowing, his throat bobs perceptibly. “r... rough,” he says shakily, his voice high-pitched, “coarse. wood,” he continues, “c— cloth. blanket. m... mattress? soft.”

his hand clenches down on the bark he’s holding. “leaves,” he breathes out.

a hand carefully intertwines with his. it’s warm, its touch gentle, completely unlike the violent and explosive nature he expects it to be. he swallows again, his nerves slightly settling down.

“that’s four,” the voice encourages, “just one more.”

“h— hand,” he continues shakily, “skin. warm.”

“four things that you can hear.”

without a second thought, he answers; anything is better than staying still and remembering that terrible nightmare. “your voice,” his ears prick, suddenly registering the sounds of nature around him. “chirps. birds? then— um. wind. leaves. and, and—”

( _there’s fire everywhere, surrounding him, threatening to swallow him whole. it isn’t kind, nor is it majestic; all it is is destructive, seeking to eradicate anyone and anything in its path. his skin is unbearably hot, his clothes singed and catching fire. ash and soot are the only things he can smell, coughing at the smoke occupying the place where oxygen should’ve been._

_he stumbles to his knees, still coughing, his lungs trying to expel the smoke in his lungs. he tries not to focus at the fire licking at the ground in front of him; he tries not to focus blood underneath his knees, slowly but surely damning him for his failures._

_it’s too hot. it’s too much and too little at the same time, overwhelming yet leaving him craving for more. he clutches his chest, his eyes desperately seeking for an out, for an escape— but he finds none. of course there’s none, why had he thought that he could even escape—_ )

“time?”

he shudders violently, scooting backwards. he hits the headboard of the bed hard, crying out at the impact. “fire,” he chokes out, “i— don’t, no— i can’t. no—”

he doesn’t quite hear the sound of movement, but the crackling of fire disappears in the background. he stays still for a moment, waiting for it to come back. it doesn’t, of course, and he freezes in shock, surprised at the sound of water, swirling around, rushing in streams.

“the fire’s gone now,” the voice returns, remaining calm and sympathetic. “just one last thing you can hear, okay?”

“water,” he stutters, exhaling in relief.

“can you give me three things that you can smell?”

he understands the pattern now. he tries to focus on the scents wafting around him. “flowers,” he says, a bit calmer now, “i... i don’t really know that smell. lilies? tulips? freesias? that.”

“it’s all of them,” the voice answers, “you’re doing good. just two more, okay?”

he bites his lip, gnawing at it to release his tension. “bread,” he realizes, “and— cake.”

“that can count,” the voice agrees, and he bites back a hysterical smile at the normalcy.

a cup is pressed to his lips and he opens them, eagerly drinking water. it rushes through his throat, soothing it from his cries and panicked stutters earlier. he releases a sigh of gratitude, taking a sip of the next cup offered to him.

it’s mellow and delicate, tasting deliberately of floral and apple. it’s sweet and light at the same time, without hint of bitterness or acidity. he takes a few more sips before he shakes his head, the lingering soothing sensation still present in his tongue.

“two things that you can taste?”

he belatedly realizes that he’s supposed to answer. “water,” he says, “and... was that tea?”

he feels the other’s nod, although his eyes are still closed. “chamomile tea,” the voice elaborates, “it has a soothing and relaxing feel.”

“mhm,” he agrees with a hum, content to stay still for a while. his companion lets him, humming a soft tune, and all his tension washes away with the world behind him.

“can you open your eyes now?”

he obliges, blinking his eyes open. he meets a face unmarried by age nor pain, donning white with hints of light green in his clothing. they stay silent for a while, as his mind tries to catch up, to process the events that had just happened.

“crea?” he asks softly, beginning to play with the hems of the blanket, thrown aside in his panic earlier.

crea smiles at him, with a brightness in his green eyes. he feels a hand hold his, and he grips it with his own, the touch grounding, emphasizing that this is real. he breathes again; this is real, he reminds himself, you’re here. you’re with crea.

“time,” crea murmurs, “are you alright?”

“not time,” he says quietly, after contemplating for a while. “i’m— karl.”

“karl,” crea tries out, and again, “karl, are you alright?”

he gazes at crea, at the soft, worried expression the other wears. he gazes at the water that swirls around the both of them, reflecting the moonlight peering through the window. it’s night, he detachedly realizes as the water shifts closer to him, welcoming and inviting. he submerges his hands into it, the cold sensation grounding and settling.

there’s something about this, about crea’s watchful faces like an older brother to a younger, like a guardian to a cherished ward. there’s something about this, eerily reminiscent of a face of another timeline.

karl breaks.

he cries, sobbing into crea’s arms as the other embraces him. he chokes out incoherent apologies, his voice steadily increasing in pitch until he’s screaming out wordlessly. he cries all of the pain thrumming in his chest, the agony and the guilt, the regret and the overwhelming grief that swallows him whole.

if it were another person, he wouldn’t have done this. he would’ve preferred to cry himself to sleep, to keep his emotions bottled and locked until he’s alone. but here, in a warm embrace of someone so familiar of caring, he allows himself to shatter into pieces, to let go of the caged emotions no one would understand.

( _there was. there was a person who understood his pain, who shared it and supported him all throughout. there was a person who was always there for him, until he wasn’t._

_there was a person, and he’s long gone. instead, a kinder, innocent version of him sits before karl, holding him gently like he once had in a different timeline, in a different future. there was a person, and karl failed him._

_he wouldn’t fail again._ )

crea’s arms wrap around him, clearly with no intention of letting go. he stays there, offering comfort when karl needs it and reassurances with every shuddering breath he takes. he stays there, alive and tangible and whole and alive, with a heart that’s still whole and a mind unburdened by suffering and guilt.

gingerly, karl moves closer, his breath stuttering when he does so. he feels wear the seep into his skin, a gentle wash of power comforting and telling him that he’s safe, protected from whoever and whatever that desires to hurt him. he curls into the other’s chest, his throat dry and hoarse.

“don’t go,” he whispers, a broken, desperate plea. “don’t leave me.”

he doesn’t get to hear crea’s ( _dream hearst cornelius aldwin dream sap alistair **dream**_ ) murmured response, but the hand intertwined with his is enough of an answer.

* * *

_“i’m tired, karl.”_

_“...”_

_“i want to rest.”_

_“...crea.”_

_“i know. i’m sorry.”_

_“you don’t have to apologize. you know that right?”_

_“i’m sorry... i... i don’t think i can fulfill my promise.”_

_“it’s alright, crea. i understand.”_

_“...thank you.”_

* * *

( _there once was a deity and a blessed, sharing a burden they were too familiar with. one was bound by the world, by his own creations and hope, ceaseless and peerless in their pursuit. the second was bound by time, by age and eras, relentlessly moving forward._

_they both were tired. exhausted. yet they both persevered on, believing in each other, seeking to know the end with the other by their side._

_but fate is cruel and sought them for her own amusement. that isn’t the case any longer, for a deity falls and dissipates into the world he crafted with his own hands, and a newly born deity rewinds time and leaves all he’s known._ )

* * *

karl awakes to the songs of birds, lovely and melodic. warmth blossoms in him, as he moves the covers off of his body. his limbs are responding, albeit sluggishly. he still is thankful for that, leaning against the wall when he stands up. the wooden walls vibrate against his hand, curling into his fingers.

his body pulses with power that isn’t his own, but it’s familiar and it embraces him like a hug from an old friend. he gently pries the wood off, setting his fingers free.

( _free. he never felt so, always overwhelmed by a gift and a curse. time was constant, always there yet never seen; he was always bound, an option presented to him yet shackling him down with a heavy burden._ )

a sad smile plays on his face, and for a moment, he stays utterly still.

“t— karl?”

karl swivels back, blinking in surprise. he doesn’t react beyond a beaming smile, resolute in hiding his nostalgia. “good morning,” he greets pleasantly, “crea.”

crea smiles back. “good morning, karl.”

* * *

( _hope and desperation are the only things that keep him going, persisting. he pours through books and literature, through olden history and legends. information is scarce, written in languages he can barely decipher; the stories are even fewer in number, torn apart by bias and misbelief._

_someone comes to visit him one day. they’re rough, hardened by years of war, a fire burning on the palms of their hands. they stand quietly, watching as he desperately tries to find a solution, to find a way. it stays like that for a time, only the frantic movements of his hands and the rustling of the papers breaking the tense silence._

_“you know that you can’t bring him back,” they eventually say, their voice betraying their emotions. “no one can reverse death.”_

_“you don’t know that,” he mumbles back, tired and hoarse. “there is a way. there has to be.”_

_“he wouldn’t want you to be wasting yourself like this,” they press on, “you... you just have to let it go, karl.”_

_he stays still._

_then it comes in all of a sudden, anger pulsing and scorching hot. it tears through his insides, screaming at him to kill, to lose control. it’s searing, relentless in their pace, ceaseless in their brightness. they build up in waves, threatening to push the dam over._

_then it does._

_“you don’t know anything!” he screams, papers and books suddenly flying and whipping everywhere. the other stills, their eyes wide in shock and just a hint of terror, taking a step back. he laughs, unhinged and choked. “of course. of course, it’s easy for you to say that. it’s easy for someone who just used him as a tool to forget. it’s easy for someone who gave up on him to give up again.”_

_they falter. he pays it no heed, clenching down his teeth as angry tears threaten to spill from his eyes. no, he tells himself repeatedly, you can’t. you can’t break down in front of—_

_“so,” he continues on raggedly, “so. do not tell me what to do. do not tell me what to feel.”_

_“karl...”_

_“i’m done with you,” he spits out, “i’m done with all of you.”_

_“i wish i **never** met you.”_)

* * *

“what’s wrong?”

crea jolts in surprise from where he’s been pacing, nearly knocking over a chair. he laughs nervously as he places the chair in its original position, resolutely not meeting karl’s eyes.

“nothing,” he answers quickly, too quickly. karl’s eyes narrow at him, half-jokingly and half-seriously. the other squirms underneath his gaze, his fingers beginning to tap on his arms.

“crea,” karl prompts. the aforementioned person squirms further at the call.

“doyouwanttoseethelibary?” crea blurts out. he clears his throat awkwardly. “i mean, do you want to see the library?”

karl’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “well, yes,” he answers, “of course.”

crea’s shoulders sag, as if a large weight is taken off of them. his confusion grows as crea motions for him to follow, the other’s strides long and swift. they come to a stop at a large, wooden door, carved and engraved with a pattern karl’s not too familiar with.

still perplexed, karl takes the initiative to open the door. brightness blinds him for a while and he squints, blinking as his vision gradually returns.

there are books everywhere. karl pauses for a moment, marveling the sheer amount of literature. the smell of parchment and wood permeate through the air, the scent of ink and flowers blending it all together.

“what are these?” he asks breathlessly, still in awe. “i’ve never seen books like these.”

karl’s hands brush through the covers, feeling the texture of leather and leaves. he feels the familiarity of such a place, nostalgia instantly striking him. the materials vibrate against his hands, as if in a pleased manner, as if they’re begging to be taken and read.

“they’re olden legends or written histories,” crea’s voice sounds behind him. “they’re written in olden language and i've only come to decipher some of them.”

“here,” he points to the east side of the room, “these are the ones i’ve translated. as for the others, i have not decoded them yet.”

karl walks over to crea’s side, once again admiring the shelves of books. his hand reaches out to take one, but he hesitates halfway through. “may i...?” he asks, turning to karl.

crea tilts his head, smiling, “of course!” he chirps, “you’re free to read all of them. in fact, i... i wanted to show you this before you— uh, well, before you remembered.”

“is that what you were nervous about earlier?” karl asks, amused.

crea flushes, beginning to protest. “i didn’t know if you still liked them!” he tries to explain, “i mean... what if you didn’t want to read and i’ll be—” the poor man looks so flustered that karl decides to show him a bit of leniency.

“it’s fine,” he says, cutting off the other’s weak protests. “i really appreciate this, crea. thank you.”

with a dust of pink still on his cheeks, crea nods. “you’re welcome,” he eventually returns, when his voice no longer resembles a bird’s squeak. “i’ll... i’ll go now,” he mutters, “if that’s alright.”

“it is,” karl says, offering a nod of affirmation before crea leaves.

he basks in the warmth of the sun for a while. the library is quiet, save for the chirping of the birds and the rustling of leaves. his eyes catch the books lying on the table, clearly recently read and translated.

he takes one, his breath catching at the sight of an all too familiar language. he situated himself, making himself comfortable as he leans against his chair. his hands are trembling when he finally takes the book into his hands, and breathes.

he opens the book and turns to the first page.

* * *

( _his hope dwindles with every failed attempt. no one visits him anymore, after that disastrous incident. he ignores how guilt and regret weigh down in his chest, reminding him again and again of what he had just said._

_when the final book shuts close, a choked comes from his throat._

_in a fit of desperation, he asks, aloud, “is there a way i can fix this?”_

_it’s all silent._

_and then— the world answers._ )

* * *

there’s a beautiful pendant in his hands, made with quartz and engraved with gold. there's a distinct flower design, clock hands visible at the edges. braided twine serves as the chord, small beads decorating the braid.

the pendant faintly glows with power, vibrating against his hand. he stares at it for a while, awestruck and nostalgic.

“i thought you'd like it,” crea chuckles, shuffling around nervously, “it's bound to you, so it won't be affected by time and it won't disappear if you move timelines.”

when karl doesn't respond for a good two minutes, crea’s nerves seem to ignite, as the other’s eyes dart from one place to another. “i’m sorry if it's too... presumptuous,” crea struggles, a bit of color on his cheeks, “i... i can throw it way, if you want—”

“no,” karl finally manages out, his mind reeling.

“no?” the deity parrots.

“no,” karl repeats again, locking the necklace in place. his hand loosely grasps the pendant, a warm emotion blooming in his chest. “thank you. i... i really appreciate it, crea.”

( _once, a broken deity gifts him a pendant, too. it’s raw, its edges both dull and sharp. it is of amethyst and obsidian, crafted with anger and numbness and protectiveness, thrumming with a disorder all too familiar for him.)_

_(this time, the same deity gives him a pendant. it’s smooth, polished and engraved to perfection. it's white and gold, shining with warmth and safety, pulsing with a kindness foreign but welcome to karl's mind.)_

_(both deities share the same name, the same face, the same fate._

_but karl has already learned. he knows._ )

“thank you.”

* * *

( _“you can go back,” the world whispers to him, “rewind rewind rewind.”_

_he holds a cracked pendant close to his chest, its creator long gone._

_rewind, the world tells him yet again._

_and so he does._ )

* * *

“you know...” karl hesitates, “i haven’t really asked.”

“hm?” crea hums, almost absentmindedly, if not for the alert eyes staring at his figure.

“how...” karl pauses, “how long have you been here?”

crea shrugs, humming in thought. “i don't really know the exact number, but there'd been fifteen chiefs before the current one,” he says, strumming his fingers on the wooden table. “and that's not counting the time before i realized i had a village living below the mountain.”

karl blinks, a bit of shock in his nerves. he had expected a long time, of course, but not that long. “so...” he trails off, “around a few hundred years, then?”

“more or less,” crea agrees with a hum, “four to five hundred, most possibly.”

karl’s mouth dries in shocked realization. he belatedly recognizes crea’s worried expression, the other’s hands reaching out but stopping halfway through.

“don’t worry,” crea reassures him, “it’s not like i was completely alone. the world is my companion—” then, as if to verify his words, wind rushes through the windows and begins to swirl around them both. crea smiles slightly. “mhm.”

“i’m not alone,” crea says again, wearing a smile this time.

but karl notices the loneliness behind that kindness and warmth. 

* * *

( _“protect him,” the world tells him desperately, “save him. save save save save.”_

_there’s a pendant in his hands, chipped and cracked at the edges. he traces the outline, loss aching in his chest at the lack of power. he clips it behind his neck, tucking it close to his chest._

_“i promise,” he says, “i promise i will save him.”_

_the world brightens— and his first oath is established._ )

* * *

_“karl...”_

_“yeah?”_

_“...nothing.”_

_“it doesn’t sound like nothing, crea.”_

_“i just...”_

_“...”_

_“just... stay? please?”_

_“always.”_

_“...thank you.”_

* * *

karl notices the loneliness behind that kindness and warmth. he always had.

“i'm here now,” karl says softly, “i will be by your side.”

“i will never abandon you.”

“no matter how many times we separate, no matter whatever hardships we face...”

“i will always return to you.”

the room buzzes with static, the faint ticking of a clock in the background. karl gazes into crea's eyes, sincere and unreserved, and— and.

and his second oath takes its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *glances at word vomit*  
> haha, i know it’s bad—  
> *runs away*


	3. iii. time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> but karl has a few things to do first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late, i had a bit of a problem with this chapter’s word count :pain:

* * *

_iii_.

**time**

creation and time walked on the same path.

* * *

“are you leaving?”

karl pauses, glancing back at crea. the other’s voice is small, his hands becoming white as his grip tightens on the plate he’s holding. he does not meet karl’s eyes, looking away, but his body language tells karl what the other’s mouth could not.

“crea,” karl tries, but crea shakes his head and puts on a smile.

“it’s fine,” crea says, his smile too wide to be real, “i’m sorry, i’m just being silly. good luck on your quest, karl, you can always...” his smile fades, and sadness flashes through his eyes before being buried ten feet under. “you can always ask me for help, okay?”

“i’m not going to leave,” karl says, soft and gentle, “not permanently.”

crea’s head shoots up at his words, his expression stunned. “ah,” he laughs awkwardly, and in all of a sudden, karl yearns for another man’s laughter. he pushes the longing down.

“i will always be by your side,” karl states firmly, “i will always return to you.”

“don’t worry, crea,” he breathes, “you’re not going to lose me. i will never abandon you.”

_like they had_.

he tempers down the anger that rises in his chest at the thought of them, all referring to different characters in different eras. a batch of people still stand out, however, and his smile grows more forced at the memory.

hesitantly, crea’s hands envelop his own. “i’m not worried,” he admits, “i know that you won’t leave. i know that you...”

crea trails off, before shaking his head. “i know,” he repeats again, more solidly this time. “i trust you.”

( _“i should have never trusted anyone.”_ )

“i’ll be back,” karl promises, an oath he swore with the world as his witness.

he wishes to not leave. he wishes he could stay with crea; he wishes he could just bake bread and water crea’s ever growing garden. he wishes he could just ignore the threat looming over the corner, patiently waiting to strike.

he wishes he could, but he could not.

he saddles a horse, the animal neighing and nuzzling his hand as he feeds it an apple. he brushes through the horse’s coat, mounting it as he waves back at crea, the other waving and wishing him good luck.

he’d return to crea, that he knows.

but before that, karl has a few things to do first.

* * *

the village is stunning, karl supposes, glancing at the golden engravings and jewel decorations adorning the area. the infrastructures are clearly well-maintained, from the village chief’s residence to the meeting hall to the smallest of farms. however, karl’s not too sure how much of it is the villager’s own doing, and how much is crea’s blessing and grace.

“it’s a hoax!” someone shouts from the center of the village, his voice loud and booming. karl stops and turns, watching as a man slams down a hammer onto a statue.

crea’s statue.

the wood breaks underneath the pressure, and anger burns hotly in karl’s chest, simmering and threatening to spill over. he clenches his hands into fists, inhaling sharply to regain a semblance of calmness. he adjusts his cloak, saddling up a horse so he can leave—

“you!”

karl halts as thunderous footsteps come his way. he turns around, anger still lingering in him, having half a mind to tell whoever it is to leave. he bites down on his tongue before he can say anything he’d regret later on, choosing to watch the man instead.

an arm is suddenly slung over his shoulder. “the,” the man snorts, his arm heavy and intrusive, “the ‘deity’ up on that mountain is fake, aye?” he asks roughly, “fake gods and all their stupid followers...”

“you do stand with me, aye?”

karl’s jaw clenches, and he lets out a tight smile. “perhaps,” he says, keeping his voice as even as possible.

the man roars, clapping him on the back, making karl nearly stumble before he rights himself. “but of course!” the man grins widely, “fellas, that—”

“but who made this land, then?” karl interrupts, tilting his head in question. “who blesses this land? who guards it from intruders? who protects it from storms? from earthquakes? from disaster?”

“who lets your crops go? who gives you all,” he motions to the gold and jewels scatters around, “those gemstones and wealth?”

“who protects you,” he directly meets the man’s eyes, relishing in the shudder it elicits. “from withering and rotting,” he taps the other’s chest, and the force pushes the man back, causing him to stumble and fall. “like you deserve to?”

murmurs rise from the crowd of onlookers. they’re torn, uncertainty present on each of their faces, looking at each other for guidance. an elder, frail but with wisdom in her eyes, steps forward, the crowd parting to make way for her. the village chief, karl supposes.

“sir,” she whispers fervently, “are you...?”

karl smiles, but he does not deign to answer. “your god is kind,” he says instead, with a light smile, “let’s hope he stays that way.”

with that, he urges the horse forward and leaves.

* * *

karl recalls many things.

he recalls the first sunset he spent with a man of humor and yellow and a man of fire and fierceness. he recalls the first sunrise he spent with a man of green and gold, the first clink of a clock in his hands. he recalls the first book he’s written, the first timeline he explored; a future that he thought was impossible.

he recalls the last days he spent with a brother, a longtime friend. he recalls the last timer he’s ever held, broken and beyond repair. he recalls the last dip of his quill on the ink pot, the last stroke he wrote on parchment.

but most of all, he remembers a story.

* * *

it is, perhaps, an excerpt of the legend. perhaps a tale, told years and years ago, waning in its importance and use.

the story goes like this:

there was once a deity and a blessed, traveling and trodding through the paths of the world.

the deity was of creation and of life; he created and breathed life into numerous creatures. he bestowed gifts upon mortals and blessed lands far and beyond. he cherished all life with his hands, swearing to protect, to heal and to raise.

the kind deity’s flaw is his curiosity. he was curious of all the things that made mortals humane, of all the things that made mortals _mortals_. he was a deity yet he longed to be with his creations, to live life and disappear with only memories in his wake. he longed and he sought; he fell into temptation and grew more mortal than god.

the blessed was of time and of age; he was bound by an endless cycle of life and death. he returned to eras and ages unknown to man and wrote down histories and stories. he did not interfere with the past and the future; he only served as a storyteller, a keeper of olden stories.

the generous blessed’s flaw is his attachment. he grew too attached to the characters of the past, longing to live alongside them. he sought for futures that he desperately wished to experience; he sought for happiness in time, but time was cold and slipped through his fingers like sand.

the deity and the blessed knew each other. they were linked, their fates intertwined; an immortal and a bound man.

* * *

an abandoned manor lies before him.

with a heavy swallow, he pushes the door open, its hinges falling off. the door falls to the ground with a loud thud, echoing throughout the place. karl steps foot in there, calming down the anxiety that rises in his chest, paranoia making him question every sound that he hears.

( _the inbetween is a strange place. not only are there books and histories of timelines that do not exist, images and pictures of people he doesn’t remember being are framed upon the walls. nevertheless, it serves as his home, the place where he goes into whenever he feels exhausted._

_there, karl could be himself, his own world curling against him like how the world once bent for crea. there, karl could go over and over the stories he wrote, reminding himself of the reason why he is there. there, karl could weep and grieve freely._

_a home away from home. how fitting._ )

he lands in a chamber, red vines stubbornly clinging on the walls. they quiver in his presence, trying to scare him away, too weak to fight or to seek control. a red mass, distorted and half-destroyed, lie in the middle, latching on to any living source.

taking a deep breath, karl uncorks a bottle, water of pure white splashing upon the wretched being.

it burns. inhuman screeches fill his ears, and he should be satisfied, content, happy, relieved, but he does not.

all he feels is trepidation.

he does not like it.

* * *

karl has a connection with fire.

that is clear enough, both positively and negatively. he adores fire, that is to say, having loved a man born from flames, safety enveloping him whenever he encounters it. at the same time, he’s averse to it, full of memories of loss and pain and _burning_ , screams ringing in his ears as explosions roar thunderously around him.

fire is like the wind, that is. it is a gentle caress to his cheek and whipping to his skin, sharp enough to cut. it is a tool in his hands, set for him to decide whether to use it as a soft cushion or a sword.

more often than not, karl finds himself wielding the former, all too soft, all to unwilling to hurt. he is a writer and a storyteller first and foremost, made to hold a pen and not a weapon.

however, it is not a weighted blanket now, pleasantly heavy on his skin. it is not a hug from a friend this time; it is a weapon, meant to hurt and to burn.

fire rages at the trees and flowers covering the bottom of the mountain. it ascends quickly, given how dense and thick the forests are, nature and wildlife destroyed in a matter of seconds. hopelessly, karl watches the home crea carefully cultivated and maintained, the solace crea loved and cherished burn, leaving only ash and soot behind.

this place once was full of life, brimming with spirituality and harmony. it once was a melody, all notes and tones in accord with each other, stringing a perfect song. it once was the epitome of life, of creation, of the deity who carved and crafted it with his own hands.

but now, as burnt, dark brown soil remains, gray and black spreading out far and wide, like a promise of an apocalypse. if it once was a harmonious lullaby, then it is now a haunting tune, inciting fear and a sense of ominousness to anyone who listens.

( _there was a man who donned black and grade, with lifeless, milky eyed and bloodied hands. there are spatters and stains of red all over his clothes and hair; a dangerous man with too much blood on his hands. yet deep down, karl knows that this man longed for gold, for liquid reminiscent of the sun to spill and cascade like a waterfall._

_but gold wasn’t, isn’t spilt. it never will be._

_deities do not die. they are bound by life, never by death._ )

a sense of foreboding chills karl to the core, invoking panic and anxiety in him. he rushes forward, ignoring how his lungs burned and how his legs ached, a steady mantra in his head. the wind is just as frantic as he is, clouds covering the sun and the blue of the sky.

“crea!” he calls out, over the fire and smoke. “crea!” he screams yet again, desperately, pushing through the curtains of dark gray, waving his hand before him to clear a path.

he sees a flash of white at the peripheral of his vision, swiveling around sharply. there, he finds crea gathering creatures and sending them away, the hems of his robes frayed and dirtied. he’s cooing at them, his expression too far to be seen clearly, but karl knows. he feels the pain that vibrates through the earth and stone, how the wind forces him into directions, a deafening, silent plea.

“crea,” karl calls with a cough, “crea!”

crea turns to him, a small smile present on his face. his eyes tell a different story, agony rippling through tearful emerald. his smile quivers in place, shaking, before falling apart completely.

and with it, crea follows.

he chokes out a sob, a wordless scream ripped from his throat. he falls to his knees, his hand grabbing dirt, crying all his pain and confusion to the earth beneath him.

( _before, a deity falls and screams to the world. no one hears him, no one sees him. he kneels there, alone, at the foot of the ruins of what once his home._ )

now, however, karl catches him, offering support and silent comfort. he holds him tight, unwilling to let go, as crea breaks for the first time in centuries. he embraces him, like a protector, like a mother would to a child.

a child must learn his lesson—

with a silent sigh, karl gathers the deity in his arms and leaves.

but that doesn’t mean they can’t be there for him.

* * *

as the deity and the blessed wander together, they share their flaws and imperfections. or perhaps they had it from the very start, and only with each other did they notice.

the deity grew attached to the mortals he meets, to the mortals he blessed. he cared too much, loved too much, and gave too much to those he loved. he grew blind to how he slowly fell into humanity, to flaws and impurity, tainted by sin.

the blessed grew curious of what was beyond. he grew curious of his own power over timelines, altering actions and decisions of mortals. he entertained the what could’ve beens and what ifs, falling to the consequences of his own actions.

a hundred swords are the deity’s punishment; restarting is the blessed’s.

* * *

“crea?”

crea doesn’t look at him, glancing outside the window. the world greets the both of them with a silent aubade, a strong foundation underneath their feet.

“...i believed in them...” crea whispers, “was... was i wrong?”

karl takes crea’s hands into his, the other watching him with tearful eyes and a subdued smile. then, like a quiet admittance, like a storyteller no more, the deity of time whispers in return, “no. no, you weren’t wrong.”

the quill writing on a book stops, and time reverses back. from there on, the pages after the present are blank, unknown, ready to be written out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :pain: :pain: :pain:  
> please be nice, this is a pretty crappy chapter—  
> /runs away

**Author's Note:**

> we’re going back to the very start :”)  
> hello and welcome to another episode of:  
> “how many aus can i fit in this au?”  
> answer: eight


End file.
